Know Me
by Gomes
Summary: [GC] Why? What's the point?
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: Know Me  
AUTHOR: Gomey  
ARCHIVE: Anywhere, just let me know so I can brag...hehe.  
SPOILERS: "Viva Las Vegas" (5-01) and minute "Inside the Box" (3-23)  
RATING: CSI-3  
DISCLAIMER: All known characters belong to their respective owners. So there.  
SUMMARY: "Why? What's the point?" 

-------

She had stopped by his office just has he was preparing to leave, pressing herself, full-bodied, against his back, resting her cheek on his left shoulder blade.

Gil tensed, feeling her body resting so close to his. He closed his eyes, gripping the key still in the door and breathed deeply through his nose. When he felt her clutching the back of his shirt, he unlocked his door and ushered her in, enclosing them in a darkened safety. He allowed her the freedom of choice between visual revelations or sheltered light, of which he silently agreed with her decision to remain with the latter.

Pain sometimes hid in the darkness, allowing life to trudge by with a welcomed ignorance.

But the most excruciating pain was felt: felt passing from one's body to another, but most often felt, unintentionally, piercing both hearts that longed to beat as one.

This time, the darkness was more than welcoming, hiding her pain as well as his own rising agony. Their arguments, their drifting...their lies. All this lay heavily on his shoulders and heart, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized that they had only been kidding themselves: in all their years of friendship, when had they truly been honest with the other? When had they shared, beared body and soul without second thought? When had the truth come first, and not spawned by pressure and barter? He sighed aloud, lost in the active stillness that his office now boasted.

And now they sat, side by side on the couch. Had they not been in his office, such a meeting could easily be mistaken for an awkward moment between two strangers waiting for the bus. Strangers. It finally occurred to him - this feeling of becoming disconnected. His eyes grew wide and he glanced at her with great surprise: exactly how much did he know about the woman sitting beside him? The woman who he had called friend...best friend, and how much did she actually share with him? He continued to stare, fear building up like bitter bile, rising and burning up his esophagus. And then the realization hit, as the bile's after-taste continued to rot in his mouth: she was alien to him.

–TBC–


	2. Chapter 2

_(disclaimers et all in first chapter)_  
NOTES: I took a little liberty concerning how long Gil and Cath have known each other. Um, deal with it? Gwa. 

**Chapter Two

* * *

**

"What's with the look?" Her question trudged its way through sniffles and sighs, as an already vulnerable state echoed the fragility in her voice.

He stared at her, his mouth slightly parted in means of communication. His breath caught in his throat, unwilling to transport the words he needed to express yet loathed to say at the same time. "I can't do this anymore." It was a disconnected thought and he looked past her, with a worried expression crinkling his forehead.

She registered the softness of his voice, though lacking a soothing intent but mirroring a sadness with an intensity she had never seen portrayed before. Despite her tears, a chuckle managed to escape, with the hopes of negating any of his heavy-hearted undertones. "Do what?"

"...this." He rested his elbows on his knees as his head fell into his awaiting hands. "This!" The outburst in his voice was muffled by his hidden face, but the despairing anger still made its presence. "I can't do this anymore...this giving you advice that you don't listen to, and then watch you come back even more broken than before." His voice was breaking but his eyes held little signs of emotion; a trick he had been perfecting ever since he started to build the thickened walls around his assailable self. "I can't look the other way anymore...pretending that it's alright."

Insulted, she pressed her lips together as the tears, forgotten but still ever present, continued their burning path down her cheeks. "Advice...what advice!" Her rebuttal was fuelled by pure venom as her defensive side kicked in.

"I've given you plenty of advice, you just - "

" - no you haven't!" She interrupted him, countering his attempts of explanation with a childish retort. She stood up, following his lead as he paced his office.

He sighed, keeping his temper burning low. "Catherine, I have. You know I have."

The calmness in his voice irked her further and she planted herself in front of his now-standing form, her face just inches from his. "Name one..." She challenged him.

He leaned in, allowing his mouth to descend close to hers, as his hands grabbed hold of her shoulders, guiding her near. "...to open your eyes sometime."

She stared at him, her eyes itchy from the stale tears that had ceased when anger overpowered her emotional control. "What do you want me to see?" Her voice was tight as the words slithered through grit teeth.

"Someone familiar." He whispered, loosening his grip on her shoulders. He took a step back from her form, though his eyes remained levelled with her own.

Confusion flashed before realization hit, and words to convince herself more than anyone, found exposure. "We're best friends, Gil...you know that."

"Are we?" His question was cryptic yet simple in its delivery. "Have we ever been?" His fear was increasingly higher than hers as his history with trust had always been on rocky ground; only she had been able to risk the journey and win residency in his heart. "You're not open with me, Cath."

Fury bubbled quickly courtesy of the molten tension abound and she chuckled morosely at his comment. "This coming from the man who would rather talk to bugs than another human being." She shook her head, tears gaining momentum. "That's rich, Grissom."

"That's who I am. But that's not who you are." He closed his eyes sadly, letting out a small sigh. "How much do we really know about each other?"

"We've shared - "

" - sure, superficial things, yes," he interrupted, "but how much do we truly know about one another? Know how we're truly feeling without lying or putting up a front? Know when and where to be when needed?"

"So where were you then?" She snapped, facing him with a menacing glare. "Huh? Where the hell where you?"

"Catherine..."

"Where were you when I was attacked? Where were you when the father of my child was murdered, almost dragging her with him...my little girl..." She pressed her knuckles to her lips, trying to curb the trembling. "Where were you when I blew up the lab, and almost killed Greg? Or when I found that Sam Braun was my father?" Placing her hands on his chest, she pushed him back forcibly as the tears blinded her vision. "So where the hell where you!"

He slapped a hand to his forehead, dragging it down to his eyes before angrily swiping at the tears that had spilled. "Waiting for you..." He replied honestly, though his ire at not reacting on his own accord was more than obvious. "...waiting for you to stop replacing me with Warrick." He finally admitted, ashamed at his jealous behaviour. "Okay, I'm not denying that I'm to blame as much as the next person, but - "

"- what do you want from me, Gil?" Her shoulders slumped with defeat as tried desperately to calm herself. "What do you want from this?" She motioned between them.

His own eyes had begun to sting but he refused to let emotion show again, to allow himself to be persuaded in falling into fatal trap. The lure was tempting, his mind knowing his heart could never bear to see her suffer, but his logic willed his emotion to cease the sacrifice: that if he had to continue to live with this longing, his heart would never survive the next war. His voice lowered with his gaze, his moist eyes pushing him to extract himself from her baited presence. "I don't know." He muttered, his own exhaustion taking its toll. "What I want and what we have are two different things, and I don't think my vision will ever collide with reality." He moved past her, heading towards the door.

"So that's it. No mending, no trying...just calling it quits." Rejection seemed to slam into her entire body, but she fought hard to keep her dignity. "Guess I meant that much to you, huh?" She followed him to the door, walking out as he opened it. "I'm surprised Grissom, that you just gave up that easily." Her frustrations had returned, fuelled by the pain he inflicted and she charged at him full speed.

"I didn't give up Catherine...you didn't really leave me much choice." He spoke, his back towards her as he locked up his office, sealing in half of their demons within the stand-still room; knowing that when he returned, the memories - almost like vivid hallucinations - would replay in his mind, each moment spawned by a sight, scent or feeling. He finally turned around to look at her, knowing that the other half of the demons would linger between them, visiting each during dream's vulnerable state.

"Then tell me what I can do to right this wrong." Her voice softened, as the fear of losing the best relationship in her life, began to sink it. "Anything...just tell me..."

"You tell me," he began, swallowing hard, "how long have we known each other?" He stared at his door, not able to meet her gaze, no longer capable of stomaching the hurt in her eyes. "In days, months and years." He added, knowing the answer in a heart-beat. Her silence gathered a wetness in the corner of his eyes and he smiled sadly, heading to the parking lot. "Eighteen years, nine months and twelve days." He forcibly pushed the door open, letting his words slip through before it slammed shut, "guess I meant that much to you, huh?"

Greg's lips fell into a pout, spying Catherine from around the corner. He and Warrick had been on their way to the parking lot when the two senior CSIs quarrel had impeded their path. "Wow, I've never seen Grissom that mad before." He whispered, watching as Catherine leaned her forehead against their supervisor's door.

"Gris wasn't angry, he was just disappointed." Warrick explained, as Catherine finally pushed herself away from the door, and slowly made her way to her Denali. "And sometimes, that's the deadliest cut..."

–TBC–


	3. Chapter 3

(disclaimers et all in first chapter)

Chapter Three

-----

Judging from the dark circles under his eyes and his sluggish movements as he headed towards his office, Catherine noted that her supervisor's slumber hadn't fared well either. A new day boasted a refreshing cycle, but neither had absorbed any of the renewing spirits; both having battled with the emotional repercussions of the morning before. She bowed her head, staring at the coffee machine, willing for the artificial energy to jolt her awake. The aroma had already infiltrated her senses, but she craved the bitter taste to awaken her body.

"Don't you know that a watched pot never percolates." Warrick walked in, handing her a cup of freshly brewed beans. "Got it from Starbucks down the street."

She smiled a thanks, taking a generous sip of the scalding liquid, before spitting it back into the cup. "Hot!" She yelped, sticking her tongue out in a vain attempt to cool.

"Mind's not on the logic side of things, huh?" There was a small amount of humour, but concern was over-powering any other intent.

She shook her head, feeling a tingling in her eyes but still promising herself not to shed anymore tears for his benefit.

Warrick sighed, pulling her into an easy hug. "Uh, Greg and I heard..."

She pushed back slightly, a red tint colouring her cheeks. "...I never thought it had gotten that bad."

"We take things for granted sometimes, you know."

She pulled back further, hurt reflecting in her eyes. "Are you taking his side."

He sighed and pulled her in to a reluctant hug, one hand rubbing her back. "No." He stated simply, breathing in her scent. Had he not respected his supervisor, a chance would have been taken a long time ago, with the woman in his arms. But he never saw the same emotions in her eyes, in comparisons to the way she viewed the docile blue-eyed man.

Gil leaned against the door, watching the two share an interpretive intimate moment. Sighing aloud, he stepped in, flipping through the three folders he held in his hand. "Am I too early or too late?" He asked, hoping they would infer the absence of the rest of the team, and not the building bond between his two CSIs.

Warrick sensed the tension immediately and stepped back from the embrace he had just shared with Catherine. Picking up his coffee, he distanced himself from the two of them, opting to sit at the far end of the room.

He still hadn't raised his eyes to meet her stare, neither had he bothered to offer Warrick a glance. He merely kept pretending to be enthralled by the case notes, while he silently prayed for his team to show up. He glanced up, hearing the boisterous Texan charm enter the room, followed by the eccentric lab rat.

"...and that's the best way to really take advantage of the sexual bliss of the -" he interrupted himself, glancing around the room at the shocked yet interested expressions. "...economy." He finished lamely.

Greg stifled a chuckle as the rest of the team's confusion overpowered the otherwise tense atmosphere.

Gil's eyes jumped from Nick to Sara as she walked into the room, taking a seat beside him. "Right," his eyes examined the Texan CSI once more before falling back to the folders at hand, "Nick and Sara, you two have a 407 turned 415." He handed Sara the file, before turning facing Warrick. "You're with me on a 420 homicide, on the strip." Standing up, he took a deep breath and walked over to Catherine, handing her a folder without a word.

She glanced at him, the mixture of anger and hurt almost magnetically compelling him to hold her stare. They both stood, face to face as their shallow breathing mixed together. Each wanted to speak, but some distorted sense of dignity curbed any words from being exchanged.

Just as he was about to exit, the team's beepers wailed in succession, instilling a rather edgy air to the already tense room. Gil sighed, letting his head loll back before reaching for his phone, flipping it open as the first ring sounded. "...what about the cases we have already?" He paused, grinding his teeth lightly as he listened to the voice on the other end of the conversation. "No sir...I wouldn't dream of vetoing your decision...we'll be right there." He snapped his phone shut, dropping his head to his chest.

"Sheriff's bitch?" Warrick grinned, handing him back the case file he had been looking over.

"High profile case, we're all his bitches now." Gil muttered, taking the folder from Catherine's hands without looking at her. "Let's go." He exited the room, the rest of the CSIs following his lead as they headed to the parking lot.

Warrick fell into sync with Catherine's steps, noticing the morose expression upon her face. "You okay?"

She shook her head, eyes keeping level with the ground. "There's no basis for this, has anyone else realized that?" She glanced up, watching the back of his head, in view between Sara and Nick's forms. "There's no reason for him to be treating me like that." She whispered, as they continued to follow the leader.

Gil smirked, spying Conrad walking in the opposite direction. Extracting the folders that were nestled underneath his arm, he slapped them to the Day Shift supervisor's chest. "Enjoy your overtime." He smiled sweetly, not bothering to stop and bask in his nemesis's ire. The rest of the team followed, all but Catherine donning a rather sadistic smile.

Gil pushed open the door and held it open for his team. He watched as Catherine and Warrick walked together, their bodies a little too close for his liking.

Catherine walked past him, only turning around slightly when she felt a good distance had formed between them. Unconsciously, her breathing deepened as she caught sight of his eyes on her, with an previously unseen emotion tinting his light blues. "This is going to be hell." She muttered, before climbing into the driver's side of her Tahoe.

--TBC–  



	4. Chapter 4

(disclaimers et all in first chapter)

Chapter Four

---------------------------

He sat in silence, head bent down in a brooding fashion as his eyes at them angrily, trying desperately to burn a hole through his head.

"Well, they sure look comfy." The car shook as Nick slammed the door shut, claiming the passenger side seat.

"Shut up, Nick." Gil and Greg spoke simultaneously; Gil's eyes jumping to meet the young CSI's gaze courtesy of the rear view mirror.

"Sorry." Greg mumbled, unsure whether he was apologizing for stepping over his words or for having overheard and subsequently knowing about their 'falling out'.

Gil's grip on the steering wheel tightened as he impatiently waited for Sara to climb into the vehicle. "Let's go." He spoke through grit teeth, ignoring Nick's curious stare.

* * *

Gil stepped up to the large hotel, tilting his head back as his eyes skipped from floor to floor, all the way up to penthouse.

"It's good to be the owner's daughter." Sara stood behind Gil, looking over his shoulder while taking in the lush environment in which bathed the hotel.

"Samantha Hamilton," Nick shook his head, "what a shame."

"Her fame sky-rocketed once celebrities started requesting rooms in her father's hotel."

"Rich girl loves to party." Greg added to Catherine's information, his first hand knowledge of celebrity gossip never failing to impress. "She had the reputation of boozing it up and bedding strange men...and women." He offered, as an afterthought.

"Nothing good ever comes out of strangers." Gil muttered, still looking at the building, though secretly his mind was still fuming over Catherine's lightly resembling behaviour; perhaps not the alcohol assumption, but more so his fear of her track record starting to ruin her life.

She slowly turned her gaze towards her supervisor, eyes ablaze with offence. Rather than employ the childish road she was inkling to take, she decided to take a stab at experience, chancing the repercussions of bringing familiarity to the already thin ice. "I don't know, before I met you, you were considered a stranger." She paused, waiting for a reaction. "And since then, I'd like to think some good came of it."

He remained silent, still staring ahead.

"You know, nobody's perfect Gil, not even you." Frustration was accumulating, and she felt that her best-friend was deliberately trying to destroy whatever dignity she had left. "She just wanted a life - there's no crime in that."

"No, but when it turns into one..."

"Well, life is a risk, and sometimes it turns into a tragedy, and sometimes it can turn into something wonderful. But she wasn't going to find out what fate had in store, by sitting alone, waiting for the right man to make a move."

The team shared discreet glances with each other, senses aware that such culmination of sexual tension should not be dealt with, within the ears of reporters.

"Humans are not without flaws, Gil, even you know that." Catherine huffed, unwilling to lose this battled. "Because if I'm wrong, and such a person exists, name one." She challenged him, smiling smugly.

"Realistically, of course not. Perfection doesn't exist in real life...but in my heart," he stared at her a beat longer than necessary, "I used to believe."

She chewed on her lip, brow furrowing in confusion and hurt, while she silently prayed for someone to change the subject. The more her mind turned his words over, tumbling a message from its cryptic intent, the more her stomach tightened with an uncomfortable, sinking feeling.

"I can't decide whether this is good publicity or bad for business." Greg mused, sensing Catherine's silent plea.

"Both." Gil answered curtly, nodding at the police captain as he stepped out of the building.

Jim smiled at the team, though they all recognized the forced intent for the paparrazic pleasure that nestled just outside the yellow tape. "Right, let's all go to the lobby." He all but sang, exhaustion taking reign over the sarcastic purpose.

The team followed him into the luxurious lobby, taking in the gold tinted pillars that held a magnificent reproduction of a Sistine themed ceiling. The plush cadmium carpet played a devilishly expensive contrast to the golden pillars, but still emphasizing a warm and rich welcome.

"Most of the guests have been asked to stay in their rooms - as both a measure of their personal safety, and our convenience."

Gil nodded, cocking his head towards the elevator. "David in there already?"

"On his way." Jim informed the Graveshift supervisor. "He had another DB on the strip."

"Ecklie?" Gil asked, ire twitching in his eye.

"Close - an overdose crack head." Jim grinned cheekily, sharing a chuckle with his good friend. "Right so, go check the body, just don't -"

" - yeah yeah yeah, 'don't touch anything until the body's been released', I know." Gil put up his hand, prompting Jim to cease his babysitting techniques.

"Hey, just trying to protect the evidence." Jim spoke up in his defence, though secretly getting some sadistic kick out of playing mind games with the uptight supervisor.

Gil rolled his eyes, staring at the elevator. "What's it like?" He asked the police captain, trying to assess the needed specialities, in order to maximize the scene's process.

"Blood and bugs - that's you two." Jim motioned to the elevator with a nod.

Gil sucked on the inside of his lip, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the metal-gate encased elevator shaft.

Catherine shook her head, letting out an audible sigh. She could sense his reticence at working with her, and despite it causing a sharp pain in her heart, his level of stubbornness surprised her somewhat. She knew he was very much set in his ways, but he had always spoiled her by giving in to her demands. And now she stood there, watching his internal battle explode in his eyes. "Oh please, get over yourself." Picking up her kit, she walked by, roughly nicking his shoulder with hers.

Gil still stood there, watching her retreating form. He held up his keys over his shoulder. "Nick, Sara and Greg, I want the three of you to process the stairwell as well as the back and front entrances. Warrick, you're with Jim - see if anyone knows anything. We'll meet back up at the lab." He jingled his keys, and finally let his arm rest by his side, when Warrick took them from his grasp. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and walked towards the elevator, where Catherine was already waiting, hand lazily on the button to keep the doors open.

As he neared, she let go, the door half-closing on his irritated form. "Sorry." It was spoken without truth, and she stared straight ahead, ignoring his glare.

The team watched the doors close, encasing tension along with both the senior CSIs. "Man, this is going to get ugly before its going to get good." Warrick sighed, shaking his head. "Blood and bugs - guess fate destined them to work together."

"Actually I did." A ghost of a Puckish smile flashed across the police captain's features. "There's some blood...but no bugs."

Warrick raised an eyebrow and glanced at his coworkers, each donning the same shocked expression. "If anything happens, -you- lead them to the slaughterhouse, my friend."

–TBC–


	5. Chapter 5

(disclaimers et all in first chapter)

Chapter Five

---------------------

The soft music in the elevator did nothing to alleviate the anger that wafted through the air in the tight space. Gil silently counted the floors without looking at the dial located on top of the doors, while Catherine stared straight ahead, observing his form through the reflective surface.

The doors opened and they both stepped off, coming face to face with another set of double-plated golden doors. Gil snapped on a pair of latex gloves and gently glided his hand across the sculptural engravings that stood proud, boasting fame and fortune. His fingers traced the lion's head before skirting across the eagle's face on the other side. "Both powerful symbols." He muttered to himself, afraid that if he spoke directly to her, she would either ignore him, or he would end up expressing another regretful thought.

Catherine bent down on one knee, her eyes squinting as she studied the bloody mark that was slightly camouflaged by the golden shine. "Hand print." She took out her camera and snapped a few pictures, her eyes already trailing up the door's splendour.

Gil tensed visibly as she braced a hand on his thigh, allowing her easier access to reach the awkwardly placed print. "Second print." She called out, snapping another picture. "...kind of a weird place to put your hand - " she stopped herself as her eyes fell on her own hand, still resting against him. She withdrew it quickly, exhaling an apology before chancing to meet his eyes.

Gil kept his eyes closed as he clenched and unclenched his fist, trying to calm himself down. Her touch had been unexpected, and he was already wound up that a mere pressure was enough to whisk control away.

Catherine let out a sigh, her eyes still assessing his reaction. She gently pushed him out of the way and allowed her hands to hover over both hand prints, one on each door. The irregular placement caused her body to bend, offering Gil an unobstructed view of her rear. She glanced over her shoulder, noticing his stare. "What are you thinking?"

He blinked away, letting out a controlled breath. "That I think whoever killed Samantha Hamilton had to catch their breath after doing so."

"Are you sure? Maybe the door was locked and they had to force their way in..." She offered, eyes challenging his.

"Look around - there's no forced entry. Besides, if you want to break down a door, you either kick it down or use your body weight." He stepped behind her, his arms going around each side of her until they mirrored her position. "Look at the hand prints, the body weight isn't distributed forwards, it's downwards. That position either leads me to believe that whoever was leaning against this door was either extremely tired or slightly injured."

Catherine straightened up, her back brushing against his chest. She closed her eyes as shallow staccato breaths emerged, trying to fight off the tingling sensations that occurred whenever his body was in close proximity. "Want to print it, or..." She asked tightly, breathing deeply through her nose.

Gil took a step back, thought more of it and took two extra steps away from her form. "You go ahead." He mumbled, his eyes automatically searching elsewhere to look. He glanced around him, noticing a smidgen of blood on the elevator button. "Cath, did you see any blood inside the elevator?"Gil called over his shoulder, as he busied himself opening his kit.

"Nope." Catherine finished retrieving a copy of the first hand print and moved on to the second. "Why?"

"Blood on the button here, which proves my theory that this was post murder."

She rolled her eyes, hissing under her breath. "Always have to be right."

Gil jerked his head up and turned it, glaring at her back. After taking a picture, he labelled the print he snagged, and filed it in his kit. "I'm guessing the killer must have wiped his hands on his clothes, before punching the lobby button." Using the end of a pencil, he managed to press the elevator buttons without touching the blood. He observed the edge of the doors, looking for fibres or hairs, or anything else that might have gotten caught. "Tweezers." Spying a green fibre, loosely attached to the side of the door, he held out his hand absently, all the while keeping an eye on the item. "Cath, you yourself insinuated on a professional environment, so would you kindly stop brooding and just hand me the damn tweezers?"

She bit her lip, ire burning bright and rising up to flush her cheeks. Digging in his kit, she extracted the tweezers and slapped them into his hand, turning immediately away from him.

He cringed slightly, but kept his eye on the green string. After plucking it, he placed it in a small bag and held it up to the light. "A sweater, or a wool hat maybe?"

Catherine shrugged and jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "Whatever the hell it is, can we go in now?" She watched him pack up his kit and join her in front of the doors. Watching him examine both handles, she sighed aloud, wanting to get this day over with. Being away from him was always a painful endeavour as her yearning thoughts did nothing to alleviate the stress on her heart, but their current friendship, seemingly destroyed, caused and even more painful stab.

Still crouched down, he gently opened the door, letting it softly swing open. He watched as she pushed her way through, his eyes on her form as she approached the crime's scene. He glanced from her to the dead body, the uncommon positioning grabbing his attention. "This too seems awkward." He pushed himself up, observing the body over her shoulder.

"Please Gil, everything about this has been awkward."

His eyes snapped to hers, knowing that their strained friendship was underlined in said passage. He sighed and placed his kit down beside the body, while his eyes took in the lavish environment in which she lived. The entrance was large, opening up to a grand living room complete with billiard table as well as a wide-screen LCD television mounted on to the wall. The white plush carpeting blanketed the whole floor, stopping only at the entrance of the kitchen that was located to the left. Gil's eyes travelled up the carpeted staircase and he tilted his head back, looking up at the open-air second level, noticing the rope-like fence that sealed off the edge. "All the things you could possibly want, yet don't need."

"Well if you have the means..."

"...or access to someone else's means..." Gil added, his eyes briefly meeting hers.

She pressed her lips together as a sarcastic smile drew upon her lips. "Nice." She paused, eyes disbelievingly taken in his form. "You're sizing me up to her, aren't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." He succumbed to her intimidation and he averted his gaze elsewhere, bending down beside the body and observing her on a superficial level.

"I'm her, in your eyes...aren't I?" Catherine pushed, aghast at the underlining meaning in his words. "I might as well be lying here - "

" - Catherine, that's enough!" Gil yelled, confronting her over the body that lay deathly still between them. This time, he didn't cower under her stare, but met it with a warning of his own, hoping that ire would mask the fear that her words spawned.

Teeth clenched, lips sealed, Catherine breathed deeply through her nose, not willing to back off from any truths that might be revealed. "Daddy is well off, why should she feel guilty for taking a gift offered - one that could help secure her and her daughter financially?"

"Samantha didn't have a daughter." Gil countered reasonably, though understanding where her frustrations were stemming from.

"But she still has needs." Catherine argued, her voice raising in matching increments as her body temperature did. "At least she was out there, meeting people and living a little -"

" - until one of those people came and took away that life she wanted so desperately to live!"

"Well I think that it's better to live and die than be alive without living." She walked to foot of the body, watching as he followed her movements. "You may be walking around and breathing, but you're dead on the inside." She gritted out, eyes shining with emotion she fought hard to keep at bay.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to play off the hurtful words as a moment's ire, but somewhere deep inside feared that her words were laced with a truth she kept hidden throughout their friendship. His eyes fell to her left shoulder and he stared intently at the red stain that seconds ago had not been present. Reaching his gloved hand over, he dabbed his finger and brought it close to his face. Digit still close to his face, he glanced back to her shoulder where another drop of the red liquid had presented itself. His eyes slowly drifted upwards, glancing at the ceiling. His mouth opened slightly as he saw an arm, hanging down, courtesy of gravity's pull and a hole in the second storey's floor. Blood dripped off the hand's fingertips, and another splattered against Catherine's shoulder.

She glanced over at her shoulder, her brow furrowing with confusion. Just as she was about to comment, a large crack was heard in the wooden roofing above, causing her gaze to snap upwards, as the wood began to splinter and cave in. The last thing she saw was the fear in Gil's eyes before she was jerked forward, as wood and furniture came careening down from above.

–TBC–


	6. Chapter 6

(disclaimers et all in first chapter)

Chapter Six

----

Shock ran the course of her arm, numbing all the way down to her fingertips as she felt herself be yanked forward. She fell hard on top of him, with little or no time to react as he flipped their bodies over, crouching over her small frame to protect her from the falling debris. She felt his body jerk against her, groans sounding as pieces of wood slammed into his back.

The dull pain in her arm throbbed, but she couldn't deny the security she felt, with his body pressed up against hers. She more so felt his hands leave their place beside her, cradling the back of his head in a means of protection. She added to his safety by covering his hands with hers, creating another barrier to shield his head. She cringed as shattered glass and splinters smashed against her hands, but she weathered the pain in order to return the protective favour; quarrel or not, he was still dear to her heart.

The dust finally began to settle, instilling the room in a deathly silence save for the random creaking that any loose pieces sounded. "You okay?" It was a whisper, laced with pain despite trying to play off the damage done to his body. Granted, his concern for her well-being did take control of his thoughts as his body momentarily forgot the acute pains in his back, but he couldn't deny the gut-wrenching aches that assaulted him.

Catherine nodded, swallowing hard as she stared up into his eyes. Everything had happened so hastily that her thoughts were just now coming face to face with the reality of their situation: their battered bodies, destroyed evidence and two dead bodies now buried underneath the rubble. Her hands slid from his head, down his back and rested against the small of his back, gripping his flak vest and holding him to her.

He sighed, arching in to her but swallowing the pain as pressure was added to his wounds. He looked into her questioning eyes and he cocked his head to the side, masking his cringe with a fake smile. "I'm fine."

"Woah woah woah!" Jim exclaimed, side-stepping the damage and rushing to their side. "You guys okay?"

Gil rolled over on to the floor, the sound of glass and splinters crunching under his weight as he motioned to the police captain to help Catherine up first. Lying on his back, he tilted his head to the side, watching her cradle her arm close to her body. "Call the paramedics, I want that arm seen to. Might be a sprained wrist and a dislocated shoulder." He ordered Jim, who nodded his acquiesce.

Catherine stood up rather shakily, holding on to Jim as she glanced back at Gil, now lying flat on his back, eyes directed to the ceiling. "What about...I..." She replied distractedly, as Jim lead her towards the exit, leaving Gil alone in the room.

Gil let out a strained sigh when he thought to be alone, allowing some emotion to slither through his closed-off exterior. Deep breaths caused a painful sting in his lower back, while shallow breaths forced his shoulders to expand, allowing pressure to reside in his shoulder-blades. He groaned loudly as he tried to lift himself up, only succeeding in causing sharp pains to override his body.

"Damn Gris..." Warrick spoke as he hopped over a few scattered pieces of wood and glass. "What happened?"

Gil sighed, closing his eyes against the pain. "Ceiling caved." He replied curtly, anger seeping through partly directed at the younger CSI, partly at the current situation he found himself in. He emitted a chuckle at the symbolism that the broken scene portrayed: the foundation's collapse seemed to echo his falling out with Catherine.

Warrick glanced at his supervisor with concern as he watched his body shake with laughter. "Gris, um, maybe we should get you checked out."

Gil gave him a dismissive wave and rolled over on to his side with a groan. "I'm fine." He repeated again, ignoring the aches as he pushed himself up on to his knees. "I have to start work...salvage what's left of the crime scene." He spoke distractedly, surveying his surroundings.

Warrick offered him a hand and retracted it slowly when the older man purposely avoided it.

"I don't need your help." Gil straightened up and looked Warrick in the eye, unsure of his own intent.

Warrick placed his hands up in defence, taking a few steps back from his supervisor. "Alright man. I'll uh, I'll go help Sara and Nick." He pointed to the elevator, leaving Gil to stand alone in the rubble.

Once the elevator doors closed, Gil dropped his head to his chest, listening to the still creaking floorboards as they swayed slightly in the otherwise still room. He shook his head slightly, a sad smile rocking with the movements: was silence all that welcoming?

Bending down on one knee, he let out a gasp as the pain rocketed to the top of his spine, and then slipped downwards with an acute precision that left him breathless. He pressed on. Lifting up a few broken wooden beams, he tossed them to the side, leaning in closer to inspect the body part present in front of him. Digging into his flak-jacket pocket, he produced his tweezers and extracted a small green fibre from under the woman's fingernails. Taking out a bag, he mechanically placed it in there, securing his finding with a label.

His eyes travelled to the male body laying in a heap, a top the broken second floor that now resided on the first. His face held no reaction to the battered body and he silently took in the beatings: assumed broken ribs by the caving of the chest area, a damaged skull revealing grey matter and eyes still wide open, from moments before whatever impact had occurred.

His back stung, and he narrowed his eyes, trying to focus on the scene rather than his body. He didn't know how long he stood there, but he jerked his head to the right, upon feeling a hand placed on his shoulder.

"Hey Grissom...were you caught in the collapse?" David asked, with concern.

Gil shook his head, giving the young coroner a weak smile. "Nah, just shook up a bit." He pointed to the bodies, masking the pain in his back with a cough. "Two bodies instead of one - remind me to have a word with Jim about training his officers." He joked lamely, though caution did underline his words.

The coroner observed the Graveshift supervisor as he made his way to the bottom of the stairs, and the debris that was left of it. "Hey Gris, you okay? You seem to be walking a little -"

"- just getting old, David." Gil interrupted him, though his eyes were directed to the upstairs area. Five stairs remained before a large gaping hole interrupted the ascent to the second floor and Gil, still on a robotic mission to reach the upper level, decided to chance his body and began to climb. His movements were slow, but still un-calculated as his mind focussed on all but his body, in order to numb out the pain. The first and second step remained silent under his weight, and he paused, searching the walls for any evidence. He leaned the side of his head against the wall and looked upwards, hoping to catch a glimpse of anything out of the ordinary.

Eyes still trained on the wall's imperfection, he blindly reached for a piece of tape from one of his flak vest's pocket. Placing it on the wall, he smoothed his hand over the print, and then slowly peeled off the tape, immortalizing the evidence in hand. His eyes travelled up further, and he spied a wooden handle, balancing precariously on a semi-destroyed floorboard. The third step creaked mercifully under his foot and he cringed slightly, despite his eyes not leaving the object in sight.

The fourth step caved under his weight - his leg piercing straight through the weakened boards, causing him to topple forward through the large gap between the stairs. He landed on top of the rubble and rolled down the mound, slamming into the wall while more debris rained down from above. Folding his hands above him, and closing his eyes, he waited until the remaining pieces ceased falling before relaxing slightly.

"You done playing Tarzan?"

Gil's eyes focussed on the police captain's cheeky grin, and his eyes flitted to the concerned frown that David now sported. Gil exhaled, pushing himself up and sitting against the wall. He breathed loudly, glaring at Jim before letting out a somewhat delirious laugh. "Shut up, Jim."

Jim joined in the laughter and held out his hand. "I know you don't need help but..." He left the sentence hanging, poking fun at his longtime friend. Off Gil's questioning look, he shrugged, "I met Warrick on the way up."

Gil stood up slowly and held his lower back, cussing under his breath. "I wasn't made for action movies." He mumbled, his hands untucking his shirt and caressing his bruised skin.

"Well if you didn't act like a distracted jackass, this wouldn't have happened." Jim answered, his eyes taking in the environment.

"Well if you're officers were trained in clearing a scene, we could have salvaged both the bodies." Gil shot back, heading back towards the stairs. He glanced up, observing the handle though the object was still out of view. He climbed the first and second step, ignoring the added pain in his thighs and right leg.

"You don't learn your lesson, do you?" Jim grabbed his arm and pulled him back, offering support as he almost fell over. "You can barely walk, yet your still swinging from the vines." Jim walked Gil to the door, pressing the button and pushing his friend into the elevator. "I'll get Nick and Rick up to process what's left of the scene." He paused long enough to win Gil's attention. "Paramedics are downstairs."

Gil nodded absently and turned around, facing his concerned friend. "Don't worry Jim, I'll stop by and see them."

Jim eyed him suspiciously until the elevator doors closed in his face, then turned and took out his cell phone. Minutes later, Nick and Warrick stepped off the elevator with their kits in hand. "Boys." Jim greeted them before jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "David's finishing up with the bodies," he glanced over his shoulder, noting the young coroner still struggling with removing the debris off of them, "why don't you two give him a hand, huh?"

Nick shared a smirk with his partner before stepping to the apartment, leaving Jim still standing near the elevator. "And what are you going to do, Cap'n Crunch?" He drawled, giving him a wink.

Jim chuckled, stepping into the elevator. "Contrary to the rumours you boys spread, I -do- work from time to time." He smirked as the doors slid closed.

* * *

True to his word, Gil had stopped by the ambulance stationed outside the hotel, but merely to decline any aid, affirming his physical health. He had forced a smile, thanking them for their effort and headed towards his vehicle, wanting to start processing the evidence he already had on him. 

After painfully extracting himself from the driver's seat, he slowly made his way to the fingerprint lab to drop off the hand print he had taken from the apartment. He then walked over to trace, where he found David with his eyes glued to the microscope. "Hodges, I need you to tell me exactly where this came from." He produced a sealed bag with the green fibre in it.

"That all?" David raised his head, looking at Gil with an observational air. "You look like hell."

Gil eyed the lab technician, considering some sort of retort but decided against it. He pulled out another sealed bag, with the word 'elevator' marked on it. "Run tests on this one as well, and then compare the two. Superficially, they look the same, but I want to be sure if they came from the same source."

David took both samples, waited and then looked at Gil expectantly. "I prefer to work alone." He snarked, offering the Graveshift supervisor a tight smile.

Gil cocked his head to the side sharply, then turned on his heel and left, a slight smirk apparent. He stepped into his office, letting the door swing closed behind him. Once in the safe haven of his element, he finally let loose his emotions: unabashedly groaning from the abuse his body had taken. Bowing his head, he leaned a hand against the wall behind his desk and tried to focus on numbing the pain away, to a point of it being bearable. "Oh God..."

Catherine stood unseen, observing him through the door now pushed ajar. Her heart tightened in her chest and she hugged her left arm closer to her body: a reminder of sacrifice and protection, all generously offered by the man suffering in front of her.

–TBC–


	7. Chapter 7

(disclaimers et all in first chapter)

_A/N: I know I don't say this enough, but I just want to thank everyone's kind words. Your reviews do mean a lot to me. Merci. :)_

**Chapter Seven**

-----------

Unbuttoning his shirt, he let it slide down his shoulders, cringing as the abrasive material rubbed against his broken skin. Reaching for the hem, he slowly peeled off his undershirt, feeling fragments of embedded glass tearing from his skin.

Catherine listened as he emitted a slight hissing sound - one of his fewer moments of vulnerability. "Gil..." She breathed out, stepping inside the office.

He glanced over his shoulder, taking in her being, poised at the entrance of his office. The closing of the door synced with him casting gaze away from her, as he returned his stare to the wall in front of him, trying control all the conflicting emotions and sensations that were terrorizing his body.

"Is this from - "

" - yeah." He cut her off, rotating his shoulders slightly to work out the protecting tension. "Just a little sore."

A few steps forward led her closer to him, slashed and bruised back the only thing offering a greeting. Her fingers lightly grazed his bare back, her being flinching as much as his form, but she still pressed on, needing some form of contact to boast self-assurance of his existence. The distance that now lay between, ever growing with maximal increments, kept pushing him into the fading horizon, leaving him almost invisible to her straining eyes. "I um...I never got to thank you." Silence once again fell between them, and she averted her eyes when he turned to look at her over his shoulder. She spied a bottle of rubbing alcohol, wrapped tightly in a crisp pharmacy receipt. As she extracted the bottle from the paper confines, she noted the small bag of cotton balls that lay opened on his desk. Plucking one ball from the bag, she broke the seal and poured a bit of the liquid on to it. She turned to face him, "this is going to sting a little," she warned, before gently dabbing his wounds.

The tension remained, despite the nurturing tone that her intentions held. Gil shivered slightly, feeling her breath hit his naked back. He flinched as the solution was absorbed by the cuts, stinging away the infection.

"...thank you for saving me." She continued her previous thought, gently rubbing his back with the cotton ball. She tossed the worn out one in the trash can and pulled out another one, repeating the same steps of care. "If you hadn't been there, I would have been part of a very unfortunate menage à trois - "

" - Catherine." He interrupted her sharply, not wanting such thought nor image to enter his mind. "It was nothing, I...I would do it again, in a heartbeat." Though awkward in his delivery, his honesty stopped her movements cold. Sighing against her hands as they once again became animate, he revelled in her soothing intentions. He braved the sting of the alcohol - the cruel reality that love's loss had been so near.

Her hand's speed picked up slightly as she tended his wounds. "That should do it." She said, bending down to apply the rubbing alcohol over the last gash on his lower back. "At least there's less chance of infection, though I still think you should have seen the paramedics.

"I did stop by." He replied, almost childishly as he reached for his shirt but feeling the softness of her hand instead.

"It was a hit-and-run, Gil. You practically body-checked them out of the way and made a dash towards your car."

He glanced over his shoulder again, looking at her with a saddened stare. "I didn't need their help."

"Needing and wanting are two different states, Gil."

"So is Nevada and Utah, but it's just 'one-step-across-the-border' away."

She rolled her eyes, trying hard to deal with his stubborn mood. Nervously chewing her lower lip, she held up his shirt, openly inviting him to an easy redress.

The position granted him the least pain possible as he tightly swung his arms back, allowing her to slip the garment on. His eyes traced the thin lines that separated the linoleum floor, granting him an escape from the embarrassment of looking in her eyes.

Her hands made way from his shoulders to the front of his chest where she now stood facing him. She looked at him while his eyes refused to return the favour, and she pressed her lips together, curbing any thoughts from spilling out.

Had his back not deny any movement, he would have brushed away her caring nature, but his bruises granted him nothing but utter stillness, allowing her soft hands to make way of each of his shirt's buttons. He chanced a look in her direction, catching her at an unguarded moment of focus. His eyes soaked her beauty, absorbing her distinctive features. His gaze rested on her distracted stare, though immediately noticing the wheels of thought turning - reflecting in her eyes. He sighed, his stomach clenching with a tingle as her fingers brushed against his skin.

Her eyes raised, levelling with his stare as her fingers busied with the last of his buttons. Objective obtained, her grasp remained holding on to the hem of his clothing as her gaze remained conflicting with his.

The pull was stronger than he expected and he almost watched himself in slow-motion, leaning in as his lips hovered over hers.

She saw his intent: dark pools staring at her lips as they slowly parted. She gripped the bottom of his shirt tighter, pulling him towards her. Her eyes closed of their own accord as she felt his breath hit her lips.

He paused, caught in lingo between lust and fear. Eyes open, he watcher her awaiting features. His being ached to collide with hers, wanting to feel the softness of her skin sliding against his body. But he couldn't - he wouldn't allow himself to become an ex: ex-partner, ex-lover...ex-friend. He couldn't take that risk, knowing his heart wouldn't survive such a blow.

Her eyes fluttered open, dread etched in her blues as she felt hesitation's breath his her mouth. She watched him as he stood in suspended thought, knowing that somewhere deep, desire's dormant state had awakened. But something more powerful was stopping him: something she was sure he didn't fully comprehend.

He glanced down the second his pager wailed, taking a step back from her form. "Hodges." He informed her lamely, staring at her lips - too cowardly to meet her intense gaze.

She now watched his retreating form exiting, leaving her feeling strangely in company with his figment shadow.

–TBC–


	8. Chapter 8

(disclaimers et all in first chapter)

Notes: For Jac. Congratulations, luv:)

Chapter Eight

---------------------

Gil walked stiffly to the trace lab, where David stood proudly at the door.

"The fibre itself is actually very common - just average grade wool. I broke down the dye colour code and isolated the company to Patons Kroy."

Gil perused the information, his eyes scanning the page several times before he gave an appreciative nod to the lab rat. "Good boy, Hodges."

Despite the distraction in his supervisor's voice, David frowned at the condescending tone. "Both the fibres are a match."

Gil sighed, folding the piece of paper and tucking it in his back pocket. "The specifics aren't specific enough."

David smiled smugly. "Patons Kroy is proudly Canadian: bred and sold up North. So whoever owns the garment which the fibres came from, must have an imported source." He raised his eyebrows before turning and heading back to his lair.

Gil sighed and leaned against the wall, the case's information and his scenario with Catherine tumbling about in his mind, creating an unpleasant tension in the base of his skull.

"Mr. Grissom?"

Gil frowned playfully, eyeing the police detective's cheeky grin. "What's with the formalities?"

"Well I figured, if you're too good for medical care, you must be some sort of super hero. Wouldn't want to get on Captain Bugman's bad side, y'know?" He joked, offering his friend a grin.

"Jim, not in the mood."

"Aww, personal stuff getting in the way of work?" Jim chided the CSI, elbowing him in the ribs. "Admit it Gil, you're becoming human."

Gil glared at him before walking towards the parking lot.

"What? Don't you want to come see the bad guy I caught?" Jim raised his hands up, palms facing the ceiling in a question. "C'mon, all I'm looking for is a little validation."

"Alright slugger, let's go." Gil dead panned, before following the police captain.

* * *

Gil and Jim stood behind the one-way mirror, observing the young boy sitting in the interrogation room. "Harry Thompson, age twenty-six. Same age as Samantha Hamilton. According to some of Samantha's friends, Harry and her were inseparable. Best of friends since grade-school - some twenty years of friendship."

Gil sighed, easing his mind into the conversation, rather than let it wander to hurtful extremes involving a certain strawberry-blonde.

"The door-man as well as the security camera in the lobby, places Harry here, at the time of the murder." Jim pointed to a small television sitting idly on a cart. He pushed the tape in, and pressed play. "Here's Harry walking in, and heading towards the elevators. And check out what's sticking out of his backpack?"

Gil noted the wooden handle but ignored it for the time being. "He could have been visiting someone else." Gil offered, observing not only the possibilities of guilt, but those of innocence as well.

"Nah, every time the elevator doors open, they are monitored on a control panel in the lobby. The doors opening at the Penthouse sweet is recorded for near time of Samantha Hamilton's death."

Gil pondered. "The other guy...the second body."

"Oh right, I must have not gotten a chance to inform you on the second DB, seeing has how you were in Intensive Care..." He trailed off, looking over his notes but making no attempt to hide the smile.

Gil rolled his eyes, shaking his head in order to deter attention from his grinning face.

"Right, Vince Spinelli, age thirty-two." Jim raised his eyebrows. "Apparently, he is listed as one of the residents of the penthouse. Seems like Vince and Samantha were close..." Jim snapped his little booklet shut, "very close."

Gil nodded and glanced back at the suspect in custody. "His arm's in a sling." He glanced back at the police captain. "Did they find the weapon?"

Jim tapped the side of his head, "always thinking there, buddy." He bent down and picked up a large, clear plastic bag. "It's a little heavy - "

"- it's a sledgehammer." Gil remarked lamely, taking the heavy instrument from the police captain. "Ah, the wooden handle from the backpack."

"DNA's already matched the blood and matter to Spinelli."

"And that would explain his chest caving in, and the splintered skull...and the hole in the ceiling." Gil mused, his eyes once again trained on the young man in the room.

"It must have been coincidental or rotten luck, but his missed swings must have destroyed the second floor's foundation, causing the ceiling to collapse." Jim added.

"It's rather heavy." Gil noted with a childlike air, as he tossed the sledgehammer from one hand to the other. "Repeated swings could lead to exhaustion," his mind's eye conjured up the image of Vince leaning against the door, the two bloody hand-prints being left in his wake.

"Not to mention injury." Jim pointed to the Harry's sling-encased arm. The police captain tried hard to hide the Puckish glint that sparkled in his eyes, but he knew it did not go unnoticed by the ever-observant Graveshift supervisor. "Shall we?" He motioned towards the door.

"Yes." Gil paused, giving him a small smile. "Let's."

"Uh, shouldn't we wait for Catherine...I did page her and -"

"- I don't think Catherine will be joining us. Let's just get this over with." He followed Jim into the room and sat down in front of the red-headed young man. "Mr. Thompson." Gil nodded a greeting, sizing him up automatically.

Harry cleared his throat and glanced around the room. "I - I'm not supposed to talk until my lawyer gets here..."

Jim nodded and glanced up, as his lawyer stepped into the room, as if on cue. "So talk." Moments passed and Jim observed the young man, picking up on his nervous habits. "We found blood, Harry."

"I uh...it was probably when I closed the door behind me after I checked up on Sam -"

Gil nodded, taking down a few notes. "So you admit to seeing her body...do you also admit to seeing the dead body of Vincent Spinelli?"

Harry eyed his lawyer before looking back at Gil. "Um, no sir."

"What happened, Harry?" Gil took over; both he and Jim realizing that Harry trusted the CSI more than the detective.

While Harry's lawyer whispered several directions and warnings to Harry, Jim took the opportunity to lean in and whisper something to Gil. "Why am I always the bad cop?"

"My client is willing to speak, but only if he is granted immunity." Harry's lawyer spoke.

Jim raised his eyebrow at the large woman before knitting them together in an incomprehensive stare. "From what? If mister Goody-Good didn't do anything, then what would he need immunity from?"

Harry sighed, and glanced up at Gil. "Sam had called me up, just to hang. I was on my way there, and I get a text message saying that she never wanted to see me again."

"So why did you go? To talk her out of it?" Gil asked, taking in every word, every movement that the boy made.

"No...because it wasn't Sam." He answered in protest. "Sam never signs her messages 'Samantha', especially not to me. We've been best-friends since the age of six...we don't talk like that. It's always SamHam. A..." He paused, letting out an embarrassed laugh, "pet name that I came up with. She hates it when people call her that, except for me." He paused, his eyes getting glassy. "So I uh, I went over and talked the doorman into letting me in. He said Vince gave him orders not to let me see Sam." He lowered his eyes to the table in a scowl. "As if he had any right..."

"What happened then?" Gil pressed on, trying desperately not to form parallels between Harry's relationship with Samantha, and his with Catherine.

"I went up, opened the door and I found her lying on the ground, blood everywhere -" He interrupted himself, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. "I think he pushed her off -"

"- who?" Jim interrupted.

"Vince! Who else! He just wanted her for the sex and publicity. He never really loved her!"

"So is that why you went there with a sledgehammer?" Gil coaxed softly, having already put the pieces together.

"...I had to save her from him." He finally admitted, dropping his head to his chest. "He was destroying her...I had to save her. So I went there - I went there just to scare him. Get him to leave, y'know?"

"So you put on the green ski mask..."

He glanced up, slightly surprised. "Yeah, that my grandma knitted for me. Whenever I go visit her in Quebec, I go snowboarding at Mount Sutton..."

"When I got there, Sam was already dead, and he was on the second floor, looking down on her. He pushed her off! I went to check her pulse...there was so much blood..."

"But Vince Spinelli was killed by massive trauma to the chest are and skull with a blunt object, i.e. your sledgehammer." Jim challenged the young man.

"My client acted in self-defence. After killing Samantha Hamilton, Vincent Spinelli then turned to my client, approaching him with aggression. He used whatever means to stay alive." His lawyer retorted with a matter-of-fact air that irked Jim deeply.

Gil cocked his head to the side. "Do you want to know what I think happened, Harry?" He paused a second, pursing his lips. "I think you did go into Samantha's apartment with the intention of scaring Vince away. You didn't receive any text messages, we checked your phone records. You went in, knowing that Samantha would be out shopping with her friends. You went in, knowing that Vincent Spinelli would be alone. There was a big party the night before, so Mr. Spinelli would most undoubtedly be asleep. What you didn't know was that Samantha was on her way home. You opened her door with the key you have - best friends always have the key to each other's houses - and you climbed up the stairs to the bed, on the second floor. Slipping the sledgehammer out of your bag, you struck him on the chest, while he slept. He fell to the floor, you hit him again. You missed a couple of times and it weakened the already shaky structure. You hear a scream and turn around, seeing Samantha Hamilton - your best friend - standing behind you. You drop the sledgehammer and go to assault her, though nothing to violent. You just want to shake her up." Gil took a deep breath, his mind working over-time while working his theory. "So when she recovers, she'd need you again."

"That's a lie...I would never hurt her."

"Maybe not, but when given no other choice?" Gil left the question hanging. "She pulled off your ski-mask, didn't she?" He observed Harry's reactions, knowing he was on the right trail. "We found fibres embedded underneath her fingernails, Harry. She discovered your identity, and you panicked. You pushed her, and she fell off the edge of the second story ledge, head first. You checked her vitals, but..."

Harry dropped his head to the table, his body trembling. "There was so much blood!" He exclaimed. "I just wanted to protect her...and there was just so much blood."

"Shoulder sore, heart broken, mind reeling...you ran out, leaving the mess behind." Gil finished. "And that brings you here..."

Jim shook his head, nodding at the police officer behind him. He watched him walk up and hand-cuff the young man as the lawyer stepped outside the room.

"Jim?" Gil called out, still watching the Harry weep openly, hands behind his back, head resting on the table. "Can I get a minute with Mr. Thompson? ...alone?"

Jim nodded and walked out of the room, leaving Gil and Harry in a tense yet comforting silence.

"She's your friend...you're best friend. You've seen her tears of mirth and those of sorrow. You've seen her reach her dreams, and almost lose her to the abyss of her failures - but you've always been there, offering a hand to pull her out. It's comfortable, you know? Almost a routine, something you couldn't imagine not having in your life. And everything is to your liking...but then you start thinking - and this is where things go downhill. You lust, then you love and the next thing you know, you're in love. The woman who you've spent the last twenty years with, who you've shared your life with...you now see her differently. And you begin to wonder, how different would things be if that line was crossed? But fear hits you when you realize that you don't know how she feels. Does she think about you at night? During the day? Does the vision of your face make her smile? Would she deny you the pleasure of a private utopia? These questions cause your fingers to curl with stress, and you feel like tearing your hair out. So what do you do? You repress. You repress and watch her flings, dates and loves. You sit back and comfort her heartaches, and seethe when her relationships are a success; outwardly wishing her luck, inwardly picturing his body on a slab, in the morgue. And the cycle starts again, as you dwell on moments past, hints that could have lead to something more had realization made its presence known. But all you can do is watch: watch her talk to someone else, befriend someone else...go home with someone else...make love to someone else. And you keep telling yourself that it should be you, it should be you...until one day you snap." He paused, emotion also hitting him hard, especially at the parallels that had formed between the two. Would he one day find himself in this position, on the other side of the table? He shook his head, knowing truth's answer lay in his heart. "But this love...if it was truly, truly love...you'd want her to be happy. You wouldn't kill her, you'd try to keep her living as long as possible. Because love is making sure that person is living life...even if it's not with you."

Harry stood up, head still bowed with emotion as he walked up to the door. Kicking it, he signaled the guard to escort him away, casting one last look at the Graveshift supervisor.

Gil sighed, and leaned back in his chair, feeling a wetness gather at the corner of his eyes. He sat there, in a stilled silence, pondering his words and his current situation.

Catherine placed a hand against the cool glass that separate the small room from the interrogation room. She had watched him, heard his admission in secrecy. Her eyes had long since relinquished control to the warm tears that glided down her cheeks, and her heart ached with each emotion that he provoked. As she watched him exit the room, she dropped her head to her chest, feeling love's toll on her heart.

–TBC–


	9. Chapter 9

(disclaimers et all in first chapter)

Chapter Nine

* * *

He slammed the door hard, pressing his lips together in a fine line at the reverberation that echoed throughout his empty townhouse. He was human: he had accepted the feelings that accompanied the state but he still hated being affected by cases. Normally he wasn't - normally he could control, ignore, repress...but this time it was too close to being personal; this time, he saw his relationship mirrored back, only with extreme actions employed to attempt a resolution. 

He leaned against the door, locking it behind his back with one hand. He dropped his head back, letting it thump against the door. Pushing himself off, he shrugged off his jacket, lethargically hanging it up on the hook that overlooked his vacant shoes. He padded to his bedroom, where he peeled off his clothes in a daze.

He glanced in the mirror, looking at himself clad only in a white undershirt tucked into a pair of black boxers and white socks, pulled up past his calves. His eyes moved to his face, pale and ghostly looking, to the shivering lips and finally meeting the blank gaze that had just appraised the being in front of the mirror.

He felt it rise from his belly on-edge, up his esophagus, burning a path of disappointment up to his throat. A few steps found him bent over the toilet bowl, clutching the rim with tense fingers as his self-disgust was heaved forward.

His toothbrush was guided mechanically through his mouth, wiping away the taste of the self-destruction his guilt was gently encasing him in. His eyes refused to meet his being, refused to connect himself with vanity's reflection. He rinsed his mouth and rested his head against the mirror's cool surface, eyes closed - vision protected.

He hated himself for feeling that way, for imagining their death, for letting them hurt her...for hurting her, and knowing that he would continue to do harm.

Passion he shared alone, prompting him to wish she was only his friend, instead of his heart's desire. "Love brings one certainty: hatred," he mused aloud. Hatred on both sides of the spectrum, experienced by the lover and the loved: the lover hating himself for the hatred that festers in the loved one's heart, aimed at the lover. The complexity of his thoughts made his head spin, but he understood himself in confusion; he comprehended his unique puzzling emotional structure.

The third knock on the door finally registered in his semi-conscious state of mind and he numbly walked towards the door, logically knowing the familiar face on the other side. Protectively, he wanted to ignore, allowing his heart to remain injured instead of the feared shattering that he suspected to occur, but his sadistic desire forced his hand to grip the lock, opening up the contents of Pandora's box.

"What." His tone was harsh and unquestioning.

Catherine's brow crumpled with hurt, and she bit her lip, trying to control her emotions. "You going to invite me in or do I need to ask now?"

He kept his hand on the door, half blocking her entrance, half bracing himself upright. "Why? What's the point?"

She closed her eyes, leaning against the door frame. "We can't leave things as is, Gil. We can't give up."

He bit down on his tongue, knowing that venomous thoughts wanted to selfishly be released, to compensate for the pain that was swimming within. "Go home, Catherine." He spat out, moving to close the door.

Eyes still closed, she shook her head before grabbing his undershirt and pulling him to her, her lips crashing against his in a heated conflict of desire and rejection. There was no gentle words conveyed in her action, just an intense passion that needed to be released, and could only gain said freedom by the loving slide of his lips against hers.

He took a step back, her mouth colliding with his provoking opposing emotions into battling on the biased grounds of his heart. His body ached with a seldom felt tingle as her aura mingled with his and he moaned despite himself, when her tongue pushed past his acquiescing lips, to explore his mouth. He placed his hands on her shoulders, gently pushing her small frame away from him. "Don't do this, Cath...please." He panted, eyes downcast.

She took a step back, tears stinging her eyes as her ears registered the desperation in his voice. He wasn't just angered, he was wounded - damaged by her selfish actions throughout all these years. "Gil, let me -"

He slammed the door in her face, cutting off her words before explanation reached his being. Forehead pressed against the cool wooden surface of the door, he mechanically locked the door, and numbly walked back to his room. His lips burned and he dragged two fingers across his mouth, still wet from the moisture of her kiss. He crawled into bed and reached over to turn off the light, sitting in the darkness with his back against the headboard. His mouth moved slightly, reliving the kiss, still feeling her lips sliding against his own. He screwed his eyes closed, roughly clamping his mouth shut as if trying to erase the memory. He lay still, frozen in that position, until her image in his mind slowly faded to black...slowly faded to dreams.

* * *

Her hands still gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles had long since gotten used to the crippling tension that coloured her skin a pale, ghostly white. The one constant in her life had literally closed the door on her, destroying one of her reasons to hold on to reality. Gil and Lindsey. Her best-friend and her daughter. The loves of her life. As long as she still had her child, she could go on living, but how much air can one breathe when only half of their heart is beating?

Licking her dry lips, she pushed herself out of the car and stood on his driveway, facing his townhouse. She walked up the steps and placed her hand on the door, before retrieving her key chain from her purse. Her eyes immediately found his key, and she ran her fingers over it, caressing the cold metal before softly pressing it into the keyhole. A small click and she stepped inside, gently closing the first obstacle behind her. She toed off her shoes and padded towards his room, bathed in a chilled darkness.

She could see the outline of his form from the nightlight in the hallway. Taking off her jacket, she let it fall to the floor, before pulling her sweater over her head. She rearranged her tank-top before gently peeling the covers away from the bed. Sliding underneath, she sidled near to him; close enough to feel safe but far enough not to disturb. She tried to close her eyes, but she couldn't - even with the emotional exhaustion that had slammed into her body, she couldn't sleep. Her eyes sought his figure in the darkness, feeding off glimpses of skin and concocting the rest from memory and imagination. Eventually, his steady breathing created a rhythm that willed her to follow, and she soon drifted, slumbering deeply.

–TBC–


	10. Chapter 10

(disclaimers et all in first chapter)

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

He awoke with a sharp inhalation, eyes staring straight up, boasting no tears but still wet with emotion. Butterflies-turned-moths fluttered about his stomach, instilling a general uneasiness as the desire to sleep left him feeling barren.

He looked at the clock beside him, mentally counting the hours before work could infiltrate his mind, riddling it with others' puzzles instead of his own. Their hauntings would spread like a virus, overwhelming his own plagued-thoughts and allowing him to function, protected by a repressive shell.

He sat up, staring into the mirror that reposed against the wall, on the other side of the room. Her form was unmistakable, for dreams and reality had offered him the acquisition of a keen sense of awareness; one specific and solely in his possession. No matter where he was, who he was with or how hard he tried to fight it, his being would always find hers. His nose could pinpoint her scent from days past, his eyes could seek out her form in a crowded room, his body could sense her energy no matter how hard he tried to deny himself the pain and pleasure that danced hand-in-hand whenever he was close to her.

Kneeling on the bed, he towered over her sleeping form; curled into a fragile ball atop the covers. His knees dug into the mattress as he leaned forward; left hand then right hand falling down on either side of her body. His eyes held none of the anger or resentment which had been burning before, but regret and sadness lay dormant, reflected in his ashen blues.

One hand dared to venture close to her form, chancing a touch of much desired skin-on-skin dreams. A touch slipped to a caress, which in turn seduced his lips to hers.

She awoke to the slight movement on the bed, ignoring the shadow that shielded her eyes from the day's light. She focused on keeping her breathing steady, though her heart defiantly rebelled against her body's demand, opting instead to beat wildly in a chaotic rhythm.

His touch brought tears to her eyes, moistening her lashes while his caress offered them freedom from their lidded confines. His lips against hers released the whimpers she held, brewing in her heart and she immediately responded to the gentle mouth that now brushed against her lips.

She pushed herself up, her lips as insistent as the tears that fell. Kneeling in front of him, she cupped his cheek, holding him close as her mouth drank him in, reveling in pleasure.

Gil pulled back slightly; lust, love, fear and logic each vying for center stage. Still resting on his knees, he reached forward, gently brushing away her tears with his thumb. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his own pain shining in his eyes as he sat back on his heels.

She straddled him in a quick movement, pulling her body as close to his as possible. She wrapped her arms around her neck, pulling herself up into his lap. Her legs locked around his waist, granting her the closest physical proximity to his body. Her forehead fell against his shoulder, and she held herself there, clinging on to him; afraid that if she let go, if the last physical contact were to break, the loss would be permanent. They were two souls, lost in a sea of spirits, offered the rare opportunity of secondary encounter. She knew that if the connection was severed once more, the currents would grab them and drag them off into opposing abysses, shielded forever from the other's presence. Her grip tightened on him, and she pressed the side of her head to his cheek, wanting to feel some pressure back. "Don't let go, Gil...don't let go."

He felt her breath hit his shoulder, felt her words break off pieces of the self-restraint that encased his body. His hands tightened around her waist, pulling her body closer, crushing her small frame against his. He leaned his cheek against her head, eyes closed and mouth slightly open in a silent lament for their friendship lost. "Cath, we can't hold on to this," he spoke softly in her ear. "We can't hold on to what we never had..."

Catherine leaned back slightly, and gently withdrew from his form, her eyes never leaving his. She searched his blues while her heart ached from his words, ached from the sadness she caused. She climbed off his bed and headed towards the door, stopping to grab her shirt on the way out. Stilling by the chair, with her back still facing him, she began to put on her shirt.

"Catherine," panic struck him, forcing his mouth to shape her name, seducing his breath to carry the heavenly word out. "...I didn't let go on my own, you know. We both were just...taken in different directions by the currents. We drifted, Cath..." He shifted, now sitting down against the headboard. "To pick up and pretend that everything is okay would be a lie."

She paused, still facing away from him, and wiped away the tears from her eyes with a controlled composure.

He studied her back, words and excuses rattling out of his mouth with an unconscious decision to make her stay, no matter the turmoil it caused within. "How can we continue when we don't even know each other?"

She kept her back to him, her voice low with emotion, "then get to know me." She turned, facing him, a certain determined twinkle in her eyes.

"What?" The uncertainty in his voice was present, and it reflected in his cautious posture as he observed her advance on him.

She thrust out her hand, her palm open and inviting. "I'm Catherine."

He pressed his lips together, trying to curb the smile that was struggling to expose itself. He glanced at her hand, and then back at her as he tentatively shook it.

"C'mon, you can do better than that," she teased, applying more pressure to their handshake, hoping to jar him into a more aggressive introduction. "You shake hands like a dame."

"As I do recall, that's what you said to me back then," he chuckled slightly. "Eighteen years, nine months and twelve days," he repeated with a sigh.

Her smile glowed as she realized he was playing the game too. She reached over with infinite gentleness before her hand's swift motion clipped him on the side of the head.

"Ow, what the hell?" He cried out, glaring at her as he rubbed the side of his head.

"Seventeen days, not twelve, you bastard," she remarked casually, throwing him a triumphant smirk. "You spilled your coffee on me five days prior at the coffee shop near the French Palace."

He frowned sheepishly as a reddish colour tinted his cheeks.

"As I recall, you went to great lengths to clean the coffee off my blouse."

He smiled and just stared at her, his eyes roaming her beauty, his soul wanting to protect her's.

"You gonna just sit there and stare, or are you going to introduce yourself?" The familiarity of her words made her avert her eyes, and her mind's eye opened the imagistic vault, allowing snippets of moments from her past to filter through, granting her recollections of a younger, more withdrawn Gil Grissom. "History repeats itself, huh?"

"To a certain extent," he replied softly, eyes now holding gaze with hers. "I think the repetition is fate's way of offering an awareness, and that awareness gives us the opportunity to correct any wrongs previously done."

She leaned forward, placing her hands on his thighs as her face neared his. "What wrongs would you right, Gil?"

He swallowed hard, his eyes falling to her lips before ascending back to her blues. "It wouldn't be appropriate."

"Gil," she coaxed him, gently stroking his thighs.

"My right will wrong you, Catherine...and I can't let that happen." When she stared at him with a bubbling confusion, he sighed and leaned back against the head rest. "I'd make sure that Eddie never lay a finger on you, from the get-go. I'd make sure you were loved the way you should have been. But taking away Eddie takes away..." He glanced down, no longer able to meet her eyes.

"Linds." Her voice was smooth, and understanding. "...change doesn't have to start from the beginning of time, Gil." She studied him for a moment, taking in his sadness and insecurities. Sidling up beside him, she leaned her weight against his side, feeling him tense upon contact. "You still never told me your name, officer."

He smiled, passing a hand through his hair. "I'm not a cop...I'm a forensic scientist." He replied, glancing over at her. "I'm sorry about what happened to your friend. I'm uh...I'm just glad it didn't happen to you."

"You can't say that...you don't know me," she paused, meeting his eyes, "yet."

"I can still feel it, can't I?" He retorted, his face inching closer to hers.

"Do you feel, Mr..."

"Grissom. But call me Gil," he mumbled, his lips sliding against hers. "And I do feel something...you feel it too, don't you?"

She responded, basking in the gentle pressure of his mouth against hers. "You're quite forward, aren't you, Mr. Grissom?"

He gently nipped her lower lip, his voice coming out on a hushed breath, "I feel like I've known you for a long time...old friends, granted the chance to cross paths once more."

"Renewal."

"Development," he added, pulling back slightly and searching her eyes. One hand traveled, losing itself in her hair, cupping the back of her head. He brought her forward, placing a small kiss on her forehead. "So, tell me about yourself, Catherine."

"Well, I used to be an exotic dancer but have since established myself as a CSI. I'm part of the night shift, second in command, though everyone knows I could run the lab by myself."

"I'm sure no one doubts that," he chuckled, his lips sliding down to her temple, where he placed another tender kiss. He slipped down a bit, so that he was now resting on his side, propped up by his elbow.

She followed his lead, laying herself down on her stomach, her arms crossed underneath her. She closed her eyes, as exhaustion was beginning to sink back in. She let out a small moan, feeling his hand gently glide up and down her back, softly kneading her tired muscles. "I have a beautiful daughter and a wonderful best friend." Her voice softened with sleep, muffled by the pillow supporting her head.

"Your best friend loves you very much," he whispered, kissing her softly on the cheek.

"Mm, I know," she murmured sleepily, "but you know me, I'm not one to brag."

He let out a small laugh at her jest, feeling love echoed back from her form. "Yeah," his voice dripped with affection, soft and warm, "I do know you."

–Finis–

_thank you to everyone for their kind and constructive reviews. very much appreciated._


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